


As Easy As

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Accountant AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 19:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13911003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: Modern AU. Charles screws up his tax return, it might just turn out to be the best thing he’s ever done.





	As Easy As

When Robert Crawley – attorney at law – looks across the oversized desk at him, fingers pressed together like a priest in prayer and says; “I’m sorry Carson, but I think you’ll need an accountant for this”, Charles lets his mood slip from moderately frustrated to really annoyed. He’d hoped Beryl had been completely overreacting when he’d had her pass an eye over the forms.

  
And then he thinks about not only making the appointment with an accountant but actually keeping it and spending what’s likely to be several hours of his life in the company of some pedantic number cruncher and he slides straight into completely hacked off.

  
He blames the Inland Revenue, frankly. His tax return is flawless.

—–

  
“This is a mess.”

  
Charles digs his fingers into his eyes and counts to twenty. Then to forty and eventually gives it up as a lost cause and looks up anyway.

  
His accountant, a weedy young man who’d introduced himself as Andrew and then taken a large gulp of tea from a mug branded with fading red letters spelling _Andy_ , blinks back at him, the pages of Charles’s tax return clenched in one hand with a white knuckled grip.

  
They’ve been at it for hours now, the shoebox holding Charles’s receipts emptied, neatly refilled and emptied again twice now while they account for every single penny that Charles has claimed in work expenses. The ring binder holding his invoices and related pay-slips have all been refiled in three different orders - in fact Charles is fairly certain that the last time Andy just threw them in there with no legitimate order at all - and they’ve drunk what feels like an entire barrel of poorly brewed tea between them, empty mugs scattered about the cramped little office.

  
And still the (deputy) accountant looks no closer to sorting out whatever apparent issue the HMRC will have with Charles’s tax return this year.

  
“I’ve filled it in the same as every year, Mr– _Andrew_. I even have it ready to file ahead of time this year.”

  
Andy eyes him, said eyes bloodshot and wide with disbelief and then he’s picking up the phone and calling his superior and Charles doesn’t bother holding in his sigh.

  
He agrees to an appointment the next day with Andy’s direct superior, who at least sounds a little older on the phone, if not just as lacking in charisma as his subordinate and leaves the offices with neither box not binder; Andy more than eager to pass them along for him and save him lugging them back tomorrow on the train.

—–

  
“-part of the problem,” Molesley continues, tapping his pencil against his lip, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Charles stopped being any sort of audience – captive or otherwise – around about the time he opened up his own notebook and began working on his next article, “is that here you’ve called yourself an Historian – fascinating, by the way, I always loved my history lessons at school – but that’s not a recognised profession by itself, I’m afraid and a few pages later you’ve logged a lot of expenses under the classification of 'Journalist’.”

  
Charles frowns, closing his notebook and tucking his pen into the coiled spine. “I am an Historian, Mr Molesley, however I write a weekly piece for the Yorkshire Times, which according to the HMRC website, classifies me as a freelance journalist.”

  
Which he hates, truely, but they hadn’t a category for 'broke historian with a PhD in the Victorian and Edwardian eras who can string enough words together to be deemed acceptable for the average intelligence of the local newspaper readership, but who cannot stand students long enough to teach them and only receives around £3.90 in royalties for his published texts each year’. So, journalist it had been.

  
“I see.” Molesley says in such a way that Charles doubts that he in fact does see. “And this; £13,000 in 'miscellaneous expenses’ can you explain what makes them miscellaneous?"

  
Charles pulls his eyes away from staring at the rather off-putting poster of a smiling cat above the words 'smile - it’s not a complete CATastrophe’ to glance at Joseph Molesley, MAAT.

  
"There was a fire.” He explains, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice; but surely Andy had written his answer to this question down yesterday? The boy had certainly been scribbling enough notes between moments of pulling at his hair and stabbing at his calculator. “In December someone in my building left their toast in the toaster when they left for work, the complex went up and when I returned from a week away in London, I’ll admit that recovering my receipts was not a high priority.”

  
“I see.” Molesley jots down his own notes at this. “And you can’t remember what any of these payments might have been for?”

  
“I could guess.” Charles offers and honestly isn’t surprised when the accountant’s pencil breaks with a snap or when he suggests that perhaps Charles’s case might benefit from a more experienced eye.

  
He doesn’t speak to the next guy, leaving it to Molesley to arrange for another meeting; the man must be in demand however, because his next free appointment isn’t until two days later and even then Charles gets the impression that it’s not so much a 'free’ appointment as it is that Charles’s circumstances are deemed extenuating enough to warrant another appointment get moved around to make room for him.

  
A matter that’s cleared up a little when he leaves the building of Hughes & Co with an 8am appointment on Friday with one E. Hughes.

  
It’s at this point that Charles’s annoyance at facing another boring day with another boring accountant starts to give way to genuine concern.

  
Perhaps he should have taken Crawley’s advice and paid out for an accountant to file the return for him after all. He’d have certainly spent less time with them if he had.

—–

Friday arrives with what’s likely to be a very brief early summer heatwave and as Charles waits in the lobby to be called up to Mr Hughes’s office, he’s already beginning to regret layering his usual undershirt, shirt and suede elbowed jacket.

  
Thankfully, accountants can be - ahem - counted on to dress even more stuffily than historians, so if there’s no air conditioning to be had, there’ll be a window or two cracked open within the first hour, no doubt.

  
“You can go up now, just press for the top floor."

  
Charles can feel his eyebrows climbing as he stands and heads for the lift, his hands clamming. This really must be serious; he’d had his suspicions at the name, but after all a company like this might hire family, but top floor offices are for usually for Directors.

  
The doors close as he presses for the third floor and his increasingly pale face stares back at him.

—–

"I hear you’ve been giving my staff quite the challenge, Mr Carson.”

  
Charles is aware that it’s impolite to stare. As a matter of fact, his mother drummed quite an impressive set of manners into him before he outgrew the odd slap to the knuckles with her wooden spoon. However even Maggie Carson’s voice in his ear has deserted him as he sits, blatently staring at possibly the most attractive accountant he has - and is ever to have likely - seen.

  
“I, uh, that is–I mean…I’m sorry?” Stuttering; that’s another thing he outgrew before he was out of short trousers. He needs to snap out of it. The woman’s an accountant for goodness sake, likely married and probably just as boring as the rest of them. Isn’t that the common joke, rife in modern media? It must have more than an ounce of truth in it. (He is aware of the highly erroneous stereotype of the historian and sees no reason why that should in any way affect his impressions of individuals in other professions.)

  
“So you should be. I had to talk poor Andy down from resigning this week; he was so turned around by your case.”

  
Aha, Charles knew the boy was an Andy not an Andrew.

  
Bolstered by that knowledge and finally regaining that stern voice in his head, Charles pulls his eyes away from Mrs Hughes’s legs and brings his thoughts back in order.

  
She probably owns a lot of cats and records Countdown so she can watch it of an evening with paper and pen in hand.

  
“Perhaps it might be for the best, if he finds himself so completely overwhelmed by a few missing receipts.”

  
He expects his words to rile the woman, honestly. Except she simply raises an eyebrow, arms crossing beneath her chest as she leans back a little further in her chair. Charles gets the distinct impression that she’s looking down on him even though, both sitting, she comes up at least half a foot shorter than him.

  
“And the matter of your occupation?” She’s Scottish and the accent is distinctly stronger now than when she first greeted him. She also hasn’t opened a window, having removed her own jacket as the room began to warm.

  
Charles is feeling more than a little overheated, not that he intends to let on. “Surely I can’t be the first client you’ve had that doesn’t adhere to the Revenue’s limited catagories?” He inclines an eyebrow of his own because frankly he’s too hot to cross his arms and completely mirror her pose.

  
Again he’s expecting a fight, or for her to wilt away in agreement and get back to fixing what surely cannot be a big enough mess that it needs all this fuss. He’s an intelligent man, he’s passed a good number of maths exams in his time and every other tax return he has filed has been absolutely fine; just how badly can he have stuffed it up?

  
What he’s not expecting is for E. Hughes – _“you may call me Elsie if you’ll allow me to call you Charlie”_ – to laugh and hand him over a sealed envelope from her top drawer.

  
“Your tax return Mr Carson, which I’m sure you’ll find has been completed above and beyond the expectations of the most pendantic of Her Majesty’s Revenue officers, despite the missing receipts and your refusal to submit to their classifications.”

  
Charles takes hold of the envelope but finds it held tight by his accountant.

  
“If I might offer a suggestion for the future, Mr Carson?” She doesn’t wait for his answer. “If you insist on completing this yourself without so much as allowing a qualified accountant to look it over, then perhaps you might at least double check that you’ve written the correct date of birth and National Insurance number before sending it off. Had your friend not stopped you from filing it, I’m afraid you would have been seen as not filing one at all.”

  
She releases the envelope with a smile and Charles lets it flop under its own weight, his cheeks heating from more than the high temperature.

  
He stands to leave with a poorly stuttered thank you, stuffing the tax return into his satchel, the leather creaking as it accommodates the size.

  
As he leaves, he catches sight of the bookcase beside the door, the bright red spines of two books he’ll never not notice – rare occurance as it is to see them outside of a University library or piled up in boxes in his own loft – catching his eye, bookended with several others by a photograph of Mrs Hughes in what appears to be period clothes – late Edwardian and if he’s not mistaken, a Housekeeper’s dress – and an unpolished trophy in the shape of a microphone.

  
“A karaoke contest.” Her voice offers behind him. “I gave the worst rendition of Dancing Queen they’d ever heared apparently.”

  
It’s the pride and amusement in her voice that has him turning back, dropping his bag back to the floor and holding out his hand to her again. This beautiful woman who has saved him thousands of pounds and whom he suspects has the ability to change every conception he has about the members of her profession. And who is looking at him with bright - bemused - eyes he can’t look away from.

  
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Elsie Hughes.” He says as she wraps her fingers around his own, chancing a quick look down at her left hand, her _ringless_ left hand. “Please call me Charles. May I take you to lunch?”

  
They’ll start there, he thinks. That seems like a good place to start.

—-

  
Accountants, Charles learns that afternoon, can be very far from boring.

  
—-

  
He never does get better at filling in his tax return.

  
It’s a good thing he marries an accountant really.

  
**End.**


End file.
